Kalisi stood, dazed. Was this really coming to an end? “I’ll contact you, of course,” she said, though she did not know his name, nor even the name of this planet where he apparently resided. “But who…?”

“My name,” he said cordially, “is Dost Abor. If, at any time in the future, you remember anything at all about your friend, you need only to contact your father in order to find me.”

“Anything at all,” she promised, wondering now what had actually happened. Had she imagined the cold, the way his eyes had shone, watching her cry for her father? Had she imagined her own fear?

Any citizen of the Union could be called upon at any time to assist the authorities in matters concerning the good of home and state. Which authority—homeworld police, the Order, Central Command—didn’t really matter; authority got what it wanted. It seemed she’d been called upon, that was all.

Of course that’s all.Miras Vara had gotten herself into some kind of trouble. It made sense that someone would want to talk to her old acquaintances. And she didn’t know anything; she hadn’t even thoughtof Miras in years…

She forced a laugh at herself as the pilot beamed them back up to the shuttle. I should have been a writer of enigma tales,she decided. She’d been slightly inconvenienced, at worst, and she’d overreacted. That was all. But then—that cold, handsome smile.

Dost Abor, she thought. She’d remember the name.

OCCUPATION YEAR THIRTY-FIVE

2362 (Terran Calendar)

5

There was no more smoke, the explosion’s resultant fires having long since died, but everything smelled of burnt composite and chemicals, the stink rising from the blackened ground. There was nothing left of the house—scarcely even rubble. The Bajoran device, whatever it was, had reduced the Pa’Dar home to little more than a large heap of fine dust.

Kotan Pa’Dar stood at the edge of the site with his personal aide, scarcely able to look at the mound of ash. A slight breeze stirred the dust, and Pa’Dar felt his eyes and throat ridges ache, wondering if the bones of his wife and son were in that dancing tide of particles. It was a mere fluke that Pa’Dar himself had not been home when the attack had occurred. In the days that followed the incident, contemplating his life without his family, he had wished that he had been home, sometimes so fervently that he could not sleep. He wished he had gone with them, wherever they now were.

Yoriv Skyl, who had been Pa’Dar’s assistant and closest friend for the past four years, was now doing his best to provide consolation, but Pa’Dar found that he wished the other man would simply remain silent, as he could hardly bear to concoct responses for him.

“The others at the settlement continue to insist that your son may not have been here when the attack occurred,” Skyl said. “Every man in our vicinity has been instructed to look for an eight-year-old Cardassian child, and with so few of our children on this world, it will only be a matter of time—”

“Please, Yoriv. This isn’t necessary.” Pa’Dar found it ironic that his own house should be the one to be targeted. He had been sympathetic to the plight of the Bajorans almost since the beginning of his term; he had originally come to Bajor in the role of scientist, not conqueror, and during his reluctant political tenure had done his best to see to it that the Bajorans under his direct governance were treated fairly. But the terrorists did not distinguish, only worked to create the biggest impact with their violence. And who better to attack than an exarch?

Pa’Dar and Skyl were supposed to be discussing the particulars of a new dwelling that would be built here, directly atop the ruins of the old, but Pa’Dar was far from enthusiastic about the idea. He did not want to live on this spot anymore; in fact, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to live on Bajor anymore.

With that thought, his adjutant fielded a transmission that had come to his padd. It was Dukat—Pa’Dar knew it from the first silky word as the prefect greeted Pa’Dar’s aide.

“Yoriv.”

Skyl turned slightly, to keep Pa’Dar out of the frame. Pa’Dar watched impassively, sure that his assistant would know to keep him out of any exchanges with the prefect. Especially today.

“Hello, Prefect. Is there something I can do for you?” Skyl’s round face was the picture of helpful supplicant.

“Yes. You can remind Pa’Dar that the reports concerning drilling estimates in Tozhat were to be in my hands as of yesterday.”

“Prefect, perhaps you’ve not heard of the tragedy that occurred here four days ago—we are still dealing with the aftermath.”

“Of course I am aware of it,”Dukat said. “I am the one who ordered that the site be assessed right away for the approval of a new structure. I wanted the affair to be managed as seamlessly as possible, to allow Pa’Dar to put the incident behind him—after an appropriate opportunity to grieve, of course.”

“Yes, of course, and for that, I know the exarch is grateful. You’re most gracious, to extend such a courtesy when I know how you’re counting on that data…”

Skyl went on, handling the prefect with his customary aplomb. Pa’Dar was grateful for his assistant’s capabilities, for he himself had never been much of a politician when it came to handling Dukat’s demands—many of which Pa’Dar disagreed with directly. Pa’Dar had been acquainted with the prefect for a long time, and the rivalry and dissent between the two men had only increased over the years. It didn’t improve the situation that certain members of Pa’Dar’s family served on the Detapa Council, and it was no secret that the council was often in direct conflict with Central Command. As the civilian government started to exercise more influence over the military, Dukat’s position weakened—and he had Pa’Dar to vent his frustration on.

As Skyl continued to field Dukat, Pa’Dar had another look at the ruins of his home, and made a decision. Skyl finished his call and turned to Pa’Dar with apology in his expression.

“Business does not rest, Kotan. I will facilitate those reports for you—all that they will require is your thumbscan. None of it is of such consequence that you need to trouble yourself with it immediately.”

“Thank you, Yoriv. But if I may make an observation—it seems to me that you do my job even better than I do.”

Skyl looked worried. “I don’t mean to imply that your input is unnecessary, Kotan. I only meant that perhaps, at a time such as this—”

Pa’Dar interrupted him. “You misunderstand me, friend. My father insists that he can eventually get me nominated for a seat on the Detapa Council if I return to Cardassia Prime. There are two members of the council who will likely be retiring soon, due to their age…. I wouldn’t have considered it before now, but it seems to me that the Bajorans no longer appreciate my efforts here.”

Skyl appeared to understand, now. “And so…my services will no longer be required?”

Pa’Dar almost smiled. “They will be very much required, Yoriv, for I intend to recommend you as my replacement. I have little doubt that the prefect will approve, since it seems to me that your relationship with him is far better than mine has ever been.” He did not add that it was unlikely that any other, more experienced politician would want the position. Where once a man might feel that his political career could be secured by serving a few terms on Bajor, most now felt that it was not worth the risk. That skepticism was not likely to abate in the wake of this current tragedy.

Yoriv was speechless, and for a moment, Pa’Dar thought perhaps the other man didn’t wish to take the position. But Skyl broke into an earnest smile, a smile of gratitude, and Pa’Dar felt, for a moment, something almost like relief—but it was gone again with another slight breeze, the dust of his heart and home spinning up into the ever chill wind. If nothing else, the thought of leaving Bajor at last was of some consolation. That comfort was small indeed.